A Trifle of Triviliaties
by trace-of-rouge
Summary: In which our resident Opera Ghost learns gossip is not for the faint of heart (namely himself). E/C Oneshot, humor.


_Thanks so much for the reviews and the favorites! They are tremendously encouraging. I realize I've been writing nothing but angst, so here's some humor! At the expense of poor Erik, I fear._

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Gossip in the _Opera Populaire_ is a thing to behold. Nothing deters the _corps de ballet_, whether in dim light or complete darkness. Behind walls, Erik hears them constantly chatter and giggle. Once disbanded, usually after a stern chastisement from the stage manager, the dust settles and a quiet descends. But in rare moments (all right, he'll admit it was more often than he initially thought), he'd let himself play the ghost to the best of his abilities. How they'd shriek! A flock of white, distressed and clinging to one another while trying to run back to where the rest of the crew stayed.

The irritable Persian had brought it up more often than not. "Now, where's your humor gone?" He'd ask with a lighthearted tone. "I'm merely cementing my reputation!"

The gossip was as trivial as the rest of the crew. And while he'd never cared much for what the gossip entailed-usually about a _ballerino_ or a new stage hand or La Carlotta (in detailed distaste)-he found himself keen to listen to little Meg Giry tonight! She had always been quite adept at her little tales; Little Giry should have been writing for the serials, not dancing at the stage! But tonight, after a horrid rehearsal with La Carlotta tempting his hand to his lasso, she had found other things to be curious over.

"Your voice has improved ever so much, Christine," Meg says, all coy.

"Thank you, Meg," was Christine's reply. He can tell she's having a hard time keeping the joy from her voice.

"You'll be getting bigger roles, I'm sure!" Ah, Little Giry-a clairvoyant, aside from being a master storyteller.

"Oh, I don't know-I hope so! I've been doing as much as I can to improve." From his position, above them, he sees Christine wring her hands in anxiety. He found this charming, though he'd rather hang himself from his own lasso than admit it. During their lessons, when he'd chastise her, she'd wring her hands endlessly! He found it irritating, then adorable. Just the same with the way she twirls strands of her hair-ah, he was getting distracted.

"Y-you see, my lessons are so very challenging," Christine continues. "My teacher is strict but he does what's best for me." She smiles, suddenly, bright and proud. "Oh, Meg, he speaks to me with all the care in the world. Sometimes, he cannot help his anger but I think that is from my own incompetence. Otherwise, he is most helpful and-"

Meg Giry interrupts (most rudely, he thinks, as it looked like she was about to get to the most interesting bits). His irritation gives way to horror, however. "You seem very much in love with him, Christine!"

He stills, awaiting Christine's reaction. She blinks, blank-faced and as still as him. Then, she blushes and her palms are immediately on her cheeks.

"Oh Meg!"

But Little Giry is adamant for the truth, it seems, and stops at nothing! "Are you, Christine? Oh, are you? How romantic!"

"Well, I suppose there's no harm in admitting I find him very interesting..." His heart soars. He could very well die right now, he thinks. Ah, the heavens are kind to poor Erik-

"As interesting as La Sorelli finds the Comte?"

_Blasted child!_ The back of his neck grows hot. The affair between the Comte and La Sorelli was no secret at all. Why, the _prima ballerina_ should have been paid for how often she'd have to ... entertain! He watches Christine say something, but they've gone too far for him to hear, and he realizes he isn't sure if he wants to know the answer. No matter her answer, he knew he'd probably be the next body to be found in the cellars (and by his own hand, no less). What a turn of events, truly. One minute he was planning a diva's demise, the next minute, he's an agitated mess in the rafters!

Still, he mustn't be late. Christine is most likely on her way to her dressing room, if not already there. He makes his way through the ropes, then through the walls, until he is finally behind her mirror. He comes just in time-she has only entered. Her face is bright red.

"Christine," he says, and his voice surrounds her.

She gasps loudly, obviously not expecting him to be so early. She looks distressed and frantic, and says, "Oh maestro, h-how long have you been here?"

He doesn't know how to answer that. It seemed very silly for an angel to loiter around, and he can't very well say, "Oh, just five minutes-I had some divine duties to foresee first and foremost." Instead he goes, "What ails you, my child?"

Her blush is more apparent than before. She is very hesitant to continue speaking, but somehow manages her courage. "I-I... the things I said were only in jest, angel! I would never be so bold-" She continues her apology, growing flustered by the minute. Erik finds himself unbearably uncomfortable... and yet, shamelessly enraptured. If he had listened to their conversation, he'd have never made it. He would surely have stayed in those accursed rafters for all eternity, reveling in her words.

Perhaps, he thinks, as Christine continues to apologize for her thoughts and his mind is going to territories he'd forbidden, gossip in the Opera is not so trivial after all.


End file.
